The Captain
by maidenfairhair
Summary: At World's End Alternate Universe: Davy Jones never stabbed Will, so Will never stabbed the heart… Jack did. A three-shot. Sparrabeth forever!
1. Cursed

**At World's End Alternate Universe: Davy Jones never stabbed Will, so Will never stabbed the heart… Jack did. A three-shot.  
**

* * *

The world was falling apart. In a thousand little ways, in every shattering breath, the world was ripping itself to shreds. The rain didn't matter. The maelstrom of contempt and despair swirling with Calypso's unbound fury, it was nothing. It was nothing. Everything was coming apart to its tiniest, most insignificant self. Every fleck of gold and every drop of water in the ocean became suddenly naked and small, at the uttermost end of recognition.

Jack screamed.

Without knowing, he screamed the word "_Elizabeth_!" Not Lizzie. Not darling. Certainly not love. Just _Elizabeth_. His heart was outside of him now, and in that moment when his soul fluttered between body and heart, itself a naked, twisted, incomprehensible thing, it only knew the word _Elizabeth_. What did the word mean? Cursed, cursed, he would be cursed for screaming the name of another man's wife. Wife. She was wife. He was cursed. "_Elizabeth_!"

The world was falling apart. Was it sacred death or cruel immortality threading its way into his skin and bones, his eyes and his tongue and his worn down fingers? His heart was gone. There was a hole in his chest where it should have been.

Oh god, oh god, he had not known what this moment would be! If he had known, he would have cast the knife far away into Calypso's embrace and let Davy Jones live. Let Davy Jones kill them all. Watch as the monster's groping limbs one by one parted them each with their dreams and their sins.

No. No that was not right. Jack knew it. Even if he could have guessed the pain (and by all the heavens, it was wrenching and unfathomable) he would still have stabbed the heart, so that his own could be cut out, set free, buried down in the sand on an old diseased island where sea creatures walked and foolish men flashed swords in the sunlight. For after all, how could one bear to live with such pain? To live with the pain of screaming out _her_ name, for one fragmented moment knowing beyond all other knowing that she was not just _woman_ (to tease and flatter, to make excuses to, to escape) but _Elizabeth_ (to fight for, to live for, to come back for).

Knowing was a strange and merciful thing. Knowing wasn't so bad, after all. He had not meant to admit, to acknowledge, that the drenched girl in the ragged black silk had become his reckoning. Ironic, it was. A bit laughable, if he weren't on the verge of his ruin, to confess she wasn't another conquest, another Tortuga lass with whom a man could pass a pleasant night. What set her apart? What did she have that others didn't have? Beauty was plentiful across the wide seas. Willpower and strength of mind—Jack had seen heaps of that. Innocence and true-hearted loyalty… yes, even that could be found elsewhere.

No answer, it seemed. No explanation. Just the word, again and again, the pulsing crescendo of love-making or the drums of a heathen goddess, the word he screamed when they took his heart out. _Elizabeth_.

* * *

The world was falling apart. Elizabeth's sword fell onto the deck and she wrenched her hand free from Will's. The rusted old knife, that forgotten remnant of another life, sliced down into Davy Jones's heart with careless grace. The heart was stabbed. The knife had gone in. Too late to stop it, too late to look away.

One instant Davy Jones had fought his way toward her, readied his sword for the fatal blow to her heart, and the next instant the voice of Jack Sparrow broke out, mocking and irreverent, calling something like "fish face," to the monster. And then Jack stabbed it. He just did it, as though it required no thought and no decision, as easy as slicing through bread. He gave up the world so easy! Why, oh why had he given up the world so easy?

Elizabeth swallowed her scream, but it burned her lungs. She swallowed the next scream, but it fought its way back up her throat. The third scream escaped, and she could not stop screaming. She could not stop screaming. Jack had planned to stab the heart—he had told her he would do it. But she hadn't believed him. He told the truth quite a lot, yet people were always surprised. Elizabeth found she was still screaming. Had one minute passed, or many?

The world was falling apart. The shuddering, writhing body of Davy Jones fell forgotten into Calypso's embrace, irrelevant now, unimportant. The storm pitched itself upon them all like a fevered lover, unable to slow itself, unable to stop itself from reaching the peak. Elizabeth could not move, she was busy screaming. There were no words in her mouth, they were gone, fallen into the crushing black oblivion of the now un-cursed locker with the body of a monster.

Will had thrown his arms around her to smother her—no, that was not right. Not to smother her. To protect her from a sudden immense wave that washed over the deck of the Dutchman. The ship was going down. Jack was going with it.

"Elizabeth!" Will screamed. She heard the word—her name—echo around the ship. She felt Will's heart pounding furiously in his chest, and she remembered that he was her husband. They had been married for three and a half minutes. Finally, after so many obstacles, she had spoken the words, "I do." And so had he. They were married now, man and wife, sir and lady, he and she. About to drown on an un-cursed ship. Aye, let them drown. Three and half minutes had been enough.

Will had a rope in one hand, and he gathered Elizabeth against his body and swung. Elizabeth abruptly realized he meant to escape the Dutchman and land in safety on the Pearl, just yards away. The whole ocean had suddenly gulped itself down and come up for the Dutchman, to swallow it whole. But Elizabeth did not see the ocean. All she could see was Jack.

He lay on the deck of the other ship, the water eager to feast upon him. Elizabeth could see his eyes (so horribly, beautifully black) fixed upon her. They seemed to caress her from a distance, envelop her. He wasn't provoking her now, he wasn't lying to her, he wasn't falling victim to her flirtations. Oh no, she was the victim this time. For with his eyes, Jack undid all her marriage vows. If there had been a ring on her finger, it would have melted off. If she had worn a white gown, it would have stained itself black to match his eyes, those eyes that flickered shut as crewmen surrounded him.

They were going to take out his heart. They were going to cut him, take all that bleeding life within and lock it in a box of wood. _Pirate, coward, captain, more acquaintance than friend, good man_, they were going to take all of it (the rum too) and put it in a box of wood. Elizabeth had stopped screaming midair, at the opportune moment midway between the Dutchman and the Pearl.

Her arms were twined around Will, her fingers dug into his skin as their feet found the wood of the Pearl and they steadied themselves on her rail. Into his neck she moaned one word, "_Jack_."

"Elizabeth?" Will whispered, following the train of her vision back to the Dutchman, where amidst the thunder of Calypso's overpowering tempest, the crewmen of the Flying Dutchman were carrying out a ritual as old as the sea, or older. The uneven brown skin of Jack's chest was pierced and he struggled, cried out. Screamed a word that Will could not quite hear. But Elizabeth heard it.

* * *

The world was knitting itself back together. The little beads of water stuck to each other and reformed the ocean. The fragments of wood that the kraken had swallowed came rushing back, built themselves into a ship, an unfamiliar ship, _his_ ship. The Dutchman. All would be unfamiliar now. He would be unfamiliar to himself—immortal, heartless, cursed, or perhaps not cursed. What was it about a curse? He seemed to remember something… something about a _wife_. Did he have a wife? No, surely not! He was Captain Jack Sparrow!

He was lying on the deck of his ship. There were crewmen around him. The ticking of a clock… no, not a clock. A heart. The beating of a heart. In a chest. On the floor. "My heart," he muttered, sitting up. There was no more pain now, just a thrilling tinge that caused him to wriggle and gasp, as the skin of his chest grew back together, grew over the hole within. It stitched itself closed all in a moment, as Jack looked down. Two old gunshot wounds, a couple of cutlass scars, the flick of a knife or two… those were familiar. But the new mark on his skin was foreign.

He thought there had been a word inside his chest that was gone now, torn clean out of him, wiped from his mind. There was silence where there should have been a word. What was the word?

The world was knitting itself back together. They had come up from the depths of the sea and the darkest circles of hell, into impossible sunshine. As though the storm had never been. As though his heart were still glued together with the veins and the muscles and the ribs inside. "My heart," he choked, and one of the crewmen held out a skin-covered hand to him. He grasped it and was pulled to his feet.

The ship was different than he remembered, brighter somehow. The clinging relics of the treacherous sea were falling off of everyone, falling off the mast and the sails, until the ship and its crew almost looked human. Jack thought, I am the inhuman one now.

"Captain," the crewman said, and Jack realized it was old Bootstrap Bill Turner. So he was in the same world, after all. "Welcome aboard the Flying Dutchman. Let us hope its terror will lessen and its task be completed with honor once more."

Honor? Terror? These words seemed related to the word Jack had lost. He sniffed at the air, he looked to the sky, he put his hand on his chest where a thick scar marred the skin. He blinked twice. No luck.

"To ferry the souls of the dead to their rest is a noble undertaking. The curse is lifted, now that their souls won't be betrayed by a heartless monster intent on controlling the seas."

Noble. Betrayed. Heartless. Jack stuck his hands into his coat pockets, which were still wet. His hat was gone, his braids dripping. He bounced up and down on his feet, and the water in his boots made a strange noise.

"You're Captain now, Jack Sparrow," Bootstrap said, his voice very clear and his skin unmarked by any sea life.

"Aye," Jack finally managed to say. "I'm Captain." And then, leaning in so only Bootstrap could hear him, he whispered, "Am I cursed, Bill?"

Bootstrap leaned back, steadying Jack with two firm hands on his shoulders. "No. The devil who Captained this ship for too long was cursed by Calypso for his malice. He was cursed by his broken heart. You've got nothing to draw a curse over you, no love to lose to this task."

"I think I'm cursed, Bill," Jack whispered.

"Why? You can step foot on land once every ten years, and since there's no lady to break your heart in those hours, why shouldn't you sail the seas and be happy in your task?"

Because… because… Jack shut his eyes. He couldn't remember the word, but the word was the answer. The word was the answer and the curse.


	2. Between

**Next Chapter. Thanks so much for the reviews... they are much appreciated! :) **

* * *

Elizabeth watched as the Dutchman resurfaced, reborn and transformed into something fresh and clean, bright as morning. All was not lost, after all. The world had held itself together. She found she had been holding her breath, and she let it out at last, one slow whistle into the deadened sky, one swift expletive of thanks to the heavens. Urgently, she searched the Dutchman's shining deck for Jack. There he was! A tiny figure, much too far away from her. In another life, she might have leapt the space between them, thrown her arms around him, kissed that mark on his chest, kissed it until it was forgotten. But this was her life—she had no other. And so she stood perfectly still, her knuckles white as they clutched the Pearl's familiar rail. Was he cursed, or had his heroism un-cursed that ship? Elizabeth shivered, knowing beyond hope that he must sail the seas now, must ferry the dead to their rest, forever. Forever seemed such a very long time… such an incomprehensible length of time. The vision of Jack driving that knife into the heart was everlastingly burned into her eyelids—it had finally replaced the vision of his beloved ship being claimed by the kraken so many months ago.

All the hoisted colors of the pirates fluttered like a forest of rebellion around them, and the distant masts of the Royal Navy marched forward, unaware that their flagship had just experienced a change in command. For the Dutchman had a pirate at its helm now, and an immortal one to boot. He had stabbed the heart and saved all of their miserable lives, in a moment when death and glory seemed inevitable. Life and obscurity, rather, had come back to them.

"Roll out the guns!" Will cried, giving Elizabeth a gentle shove to her post. She met his eyes steadily, somehow mustered a buoyant smile. Funny, being married did not make her feel any different. Her feelings for Will had not suddenly expanded like the autumn tide, as she'd half expected, to erase all the betrayals of the past (or future) with perfect love and perfect understanding. He was the same Will he had always been. Was she the same Elizabeth?

"We have the advantage," she said.

"Yes… if Jack fights."

Of course Jack would fight. Elizabeth had not doubted that for an instant, and indeed, as the Pearl suddenly lurched into formation, she found the yards between her and Jack growing fewer and fewer, until she could see his aberrant mouth calling orders, until she could see the line of seared flesh stretching downward across his chest. Oh god, had they really cut him? Had they taken away his heart? Was this another ghost story she'd refuse to believe, or wake up from? He looked the same… so much the same, she could hear his teasing voice on the air, feel the rough heat of his skin, almost taste him. Unexpectedly, she _wanted_ to taste him.

Beckett's ship scuttled forward, unaware of its imminent ruin. Elizabeth had never been less interested in a battle. The gods were going to curse her for this—desiring another man when her five-minutes husband stood to her left, brave and noble and everything she had ever dreamed of. Perhaps the disaster that interrupted their first wedding hadn't been a disaster after all—perhaps she was not made for marriage. It was too late to change her mind now, though. Much too late. _I've made my choice_, Will had said. And she had, too. The bewitchment crowding her heart for the latest captain of the Flying Dutchman had nothing to do with the husband she had chosen or the life she would live. It was a final twilight, a blistering dark, a thirst that could not be overcome for all the water in the sea.

Could she overcome it? Could she stifle such immeasurable thirst? Ah, the sea! Jack was the sea now. Explosions shattered the air, ripping through wood and metal, ripping through her soul and all her ideals. The noise comforted her. Sulfur and kerosene infected the air and Elizabeth ducked on Will's signal, watching with disbelief as Beckett's ship tottered and collapsed in the water. He was giving up. He was going to lose. With a blank face and no final words. Elizabeth understood that. Would she stand still as he had, would she forget to fight, and lose everything, too?

Her eyes found Jack again, high atop the Dutchman's main deck, directing his men (yes, they were men again, human), heedless of her. Had he really screamed her name in the hellish moment before…? Had she imagined it? Across the bit of ocean between them, their eyes met. Elizabeth staggered beneath his gaze, feeling a force more potent than the maelstrom beating against her, undoing her, recreating her. She had not imagined it. He had screamed her name. With their eyes still locked, she silently mouthed his. _Jack_.

* * *

The straight-backed, orderly line of Royal Navy ships inexplicably faded into the distance, dismayed by the unforeseen victory of the pirates. Perhaps they would return another day to finish the job Beckett had begun… but for the pirates, another free day (however short) was cause enough to cheer. When the horizon was blank again, they set sail for the Cove. Let tomorrow worry about itself, they said. Let trouble come to someone else, another day. Tonight they would feast, and more importantly, drink. _Yo, ho, haul together, hoist the colors high. Heave ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die!_

Well, that last line was more or less accurate. Jack surveyed his new crew, aware of a separation between them. The old days of carefree wandering were gone—the days of stumbling drunk from the helm to escape Gibbs's off-key ballads, the days of Cotton's parrot getting the last word in every conversation, the days of Marti swabbing the deck with a mop that was taller than him—they were settled into an ancient chessboard, half the pieces lost, unplayable now. And the freedom of the horizon had changed. Just when he was beginning to get the hang of being alive again, immortality had come and taken life away.

He remembered that irrational conversation he had with himself on the way back from the world's end, when he decided that stabbing the heart would preserve his way of life. Utter folly. Still, the situation wasn't entirely bleak. He would have silence, and he would have the sea, and he would have good strong talk with the souls of the dead. They could probably tell a hair-raising story or two. He would grow wise in their wisdom, and rich with their memories, and joyous with their laughter. Death was a sweet release, and he could make friends with it. He was already somewhat famous, as pirates go—now he would become legendary. Old enemies would be put in their place, and he would always get to say a final goodbye to friends and lovers.

_Lover_. A peculiar word. Now what did that word remind him of? Ah yes… that blank patch in his mind—the bit of whitewashed wall on the brightly colored fence of imaginings. Would he ever find the piece that fit into the void?

"Captain!" Bootstrap called, already an invaluable crewmember. Jack would regret losing him.

"Aye."

"The Devil's Throat is at hand. Care to take the helm?"

Jack took a long step, disliking the wheel of the Dutchman. He missed the sanded solidity of the Pearl. But that was lost to him now—he would learn to love the Dutchman, little by little, this would become his ship, even if it took ten lifetimes. He gritted his teeth. "Bill, when we make port at the Cove, I want you to set your feet on land and stay there. Find your son and good luck to you."

"My son?" Bootstrap repeated, as though not quite believing freedom had come to him.

"Aye, William. He's a fine lad. Noble, heroic… possible married at this point." Jack couldn't seem to remember the details of that last bit.

Bootstrap nodded, scratching behind one ear. "I'd be happy to serve under your colors, Captain. The curse has passed. This ship will be a haven to those who love the sea."

"Aye," Jack replied, unconvinced. "But you've served it long enough, and I always meant to see you and Will safe from the Dutchman. It's time to learn to live on land again, Bill."

A slow smile spread across Bill's face, and something like fear showed in his eyes. "I was afraid you'd say that."

* * *

The Cove rang with raucous cheering and premeditated drunkenness. Elizabeth disembarked the Pearl with Will, acutely aware that the Pearl lacked its rightful Captain. Where had the Dutchman gone? Had it set forth already, never to be seen again? Elizabeth couldn't bear the thought of not saying goodbye to Jack. Then again, she couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to him, either. How exactly did one say goodbye to someone one had alternately admired, lusted after, betrayed, killed, rescued, loved? Wait, _loved_…? Had she really just thought the word? She must be feverish. The events of the day—of the last few months—were catching up with her. Twilight would come quickly tonight.

"Not exactly the wedding day you imagined," Will said with a smile as they faltered down the gangplank.

"The wedding was precisely what I always imagined," Elizabeth mumbled. Everything that followed the wedding, however… oh, hang weddings and everything to do with them! They had said their "I dos"—let that be the end of it! There were much more pressing questions afoot than where in this wreck of a town they would find a decent bed to consummate said marriage. It would have been fitting to have had each other on the deck of the ship… but Elizabeth doubted Will would appreciate such a suggestion.

Chinese fire sparkled down the alley that led to the Brethren's Court; everything swayed and glimmered, an illusion of freedom, an illusion of victory. Elizabeth felt sweat gathering above her lip and on her forehead. Why, oh why did she feel such apprehension, aye, disquiet? Why did her heart flutter and thud when the fireworks split the air, when the song of the pirates (learned so long ago, two days out from Singapore) rang through the thickness lustily? She felt faint. She was king—king of a victorious, riotous little kingdom halfway between truth and legend. And this was her wedding night.

_Wedding Night_. Let it not be so! She had been robbed of it before, and she had never stolen it back. Now, she didn't want it back. A wedding night meant a virginal bride and a wholesome kiss, a slow embrace, a discomfited attempt to lower herself onto white sheets. Such a thing would have been proper for the girl she had been years ago, when she and Will shared their first kiss on the ramparts of idyllic Port Royal. Now she was a pirate, and she couldn't help but feel a wedding night would be lost on her. She wanted the act itself in an old back alley, half drunk off rum and without a thought for the days to come. Or perhaps partially buried in sand, each sensation sharpened by a slick waves around them, each movement heightened by impiety, chaos, lust.

Marrying Will had been an attempt to thread back the old carpet of who she had been, who he had been, who they had been together. Now they must start at the beginning, with frightening new selves and so many walls built up. Was it possible to love two men—in different ways, with different sides of her heart? Or was such a thing the mark of a betraying harlot—the mark of a true soulless pirate?

"My King," a tremor of a voice broke her reverie, and she whirled to see Ragetti behind her, his hand nervously tapping her shoulder.

"Aye," she replied, employing all her strength to calm her heartbeat. When had she started saying "aye" instead of "yes," like a common sailor?

"A word, alone, my King?" Ragetti stammered, with a worried glance to Will.

Elizabeth mustered herself. "Go to your father, Will. He's certain to have come ashore looking for you. You will have much to talk of!"

"Yes," Will agreed, with an enigmatic look at her. "My promise is fulfilled, though by another's hand." He smiled a brittle smile, and then leaned in to kiss her lingeringly. "Come and find me soon," he whispered, anticipation clear in his voice. "I'll be waiting for you."

Elizabeth nodded, trying to ignore the transparent adoration written across his face. Once, such a whisper, such a kiss, would have set her aflame. Was it weariness, or something else, that made her long to escape their embrace?

When Will had disappeared into the crowds, she turned her gaze back to Ragetti, wondering what on earth he could have to say to her now. He should be drunk somewhere, celebrating.

With a jerk of his hand, Ragetti held out a small vial filled with black liquid. "It's for him, Miss Elizabeth. For Will."

Elizabeth took the vial, puzzled. "What on earth for?"

Ragetti had trouble getting the words out. "To make him sleep… for a night and a day. A sleep without dreams, without fears. Without suspicions. That's what the goddess said, she did. He'll sleep straight through until sunset tomorrow."

"The goddess? Calypso?" Elizabeth's brain seemed motionless, unable to process Ragetti's words.

"Aye," Ragetti whispered, leaning closer. "She told me what Jack Sparrow done, stabbing the heart. Told me he'd be cursed because he was in love. In love with you."

Elizabeth clutched Ragetti's bony wrist, pursing her lips tight as a wasp nest. "Jack Sparrow? In love with me? Hardly!"

Ragetti tried to shrug amidst his obvious discomfort. "The goddess told me, Miss Elizabeth. I wouldn't argue with the goddess, not for the life of me. She told me you must go to him, before he sets sail, or he'll grow into the sea and become like… like…" Ragetti didn't finish his sentence, but shivered. Calypso would not be content to trade one monster for another—the Flying Dutchman should be whole again, and untainted.

"I don't believe you," Elizabeth said woodenly. But she could not deny her wild urge to run straight to Jack's arms. Had she had been waiting for this chance? What had happened in the space of "I do" and the moment when Jack screamed her name, the moment he gave up his mortality?

"Ask the goddess yourself," Ragetti replied, with a nod toward the sea. "A few drops of that vial in Will's drink, and he'll sleep. Jack Sparrow is in the Brethren Court if you decide to…" Ragetti ducked his head to his king, and with a sigh of relief, vanished.

Elizabeth stood stock still, the vial cold and real in her hand. No use asking the goddess, because in her every pore she did believe Ragetti. She shifted her weight forward, back, stood up on her tiptoes, rolled her shoulders until she could feel the weight of decision lift off. No use overthinking things. Not on a night like tonight.

* * *

The room where the pirate brethren had gathered (had it been a mere day? Impossible!) was empty, except for Jack. He stood with his back to the doorway, humming softly, turning around and around the old compass in his hands. On a table nearby sat that horrid chest, its striking details gleaming in the light of a thousand candles.

As silently as she could, Elizabeth tiptoed to the table. With one hand she dropped the goddess's vial—now empty—into her pocket, praying its charm would work and Will would stay sleeping, stay ignorant of everything she was about to do. Let Will vanish from this night and this day, and then she would pick up her life where she had left it, like a garment to put on again when she chose. Just one night and one day of freedom, and then let forever begin.

She outlined the wood of the chest with trembling fingers. She could feel the heat emanating from the heart within. So much passion, so much adventure in that box. She wanted it for herself, wanted the heart, the body, the soul, the man. It was folly to want any of it—it was the rum, the excitement of battle, the weariness of struggling to survive for so many days and weeks—it was anything but the truth.

"Jack," she whispered.

He turned around, slightly off-balance, as ever. He seemed younger, or perhaps it was the candlelight that hid that lines on his face and brightened his orb eyes. "You," he said. "You fought well today."

"Jack," she repeated, reminded of their first chilly encounter in the locker. "Thank you for saving my life. For saving all of our lives." It occurred to her now that he had saved her life, by stabbing the heart at the opportune moment. Of course, it was utter vanity to think he had done it for her, but still. He had done it. "I always knew you were a good man."

"Don't start _that_ again, love," he chuckled. "Been down that road once, as I recall."

"After all this, what do you think I would do to you?"

"Haven't the foggiest." He had a goblet of rum instead of a bottle, yet he slung it back like the old days.

"You sail tomorrow?"

"Aye, at sunset. Got one day on land, that appears to be the way of it. And then it's goodbye, have a nice life, I suppose."

"No!" she cried, without meaning to.

"No?" he questioned, his face bemused.

"No," she said again. "I don't want to say goodbye to you."

"Can't be helped now, love." And he pulled open his shirt with a dark look, revealing that unfamiliar scar. "Immortality comes with a price."

"It won't be goodbye forever," Elizabeth insisted. "Ten years from now…"

Jack waved her off. "I like the sea. Why return to land when I could just send a crew member to restock the supply of rum?"

"Jack," Elizabeth could not stop saying his name. In a day, she'd have no one to say it to— it would lose meaning and become an oath on her lips, a worn out memory. "Jack Sparrow." His name tasted of salt. Oh, how she wanted to taste him! She was burning up with thirst.

"Isn't it your wedding night then, love?"

She ignored the question. "You screamed my name, Jack. Before… when…"

"Your name," he repeated, his voice suddenly doused like a lamp. He leaned against a chair, and said gradually, cautiously, "I don't remember."

"You don't remember screaming my name?"

"I don't…" He twisted his fingers together, licked his lips. "I don't remember your name. I can't remember what your name is. It's the curse."

The curse? What curse? Jack was not cursed—he had un-cursed the ship, set it free. Hadn't he? Elizabeth's mouth was dry, and she could not swallow. Why couldn't he remember her name? Why was the air between them so filled with smoke? She could barely breathe. The candles were flickering in a draft; the wood floor beneath them creaking in rhythm; the stench off the sea lacing its way up and down their feeble chatter. Had she come all this way to parry words? Had she robbed herself of yet another wedding night for naught? She felt suddenly that she had nothing to give him, while he had everything to deny her. Oh, for a trickle, a stream, a wave, a kiss! "What curse, Jack?"

"Your name." He had closed his eyes, sagged back against the wall, worn out and fragile against the bizarre inviolate cavern. "Your name is the curse. Don't tell me your name, love."

Instinctively, she clutched the chest that held his beating heart. "Give me the key," she murmured.

"The key?"

"The key to the chest!" Elizabeth cried. "I want to see your heart."

"Why, are you planning on stabbing it?"

"No. I haven't got a knife, anyway."

"I don't trust you," he said. But he reached into his coat pocket, with the same careless grace he had used to stab the heart of Davy Jones, and tossed Elizabeth the key.

It was heavier than she expected, peculiarly shaped, and the metal rang upon contact with her skin. She fitted it into the lock easily. The lid snapped up, and then Jack's heartbeat was the only sound for miles.

Elizabeth leaned into its warmth, and like the chime of a clock she could hear her name in the box, reverberating with every throb from Jack's heart. _Elizabeth_. _Elizabeth_. _Elizabeth_. She bent closer, unafraid, entranced. One finger accidentally skirted the edge of the muscle, and from a few feet away, Jack moaned.

"Don't do that, love. It feels… it feels curious."

"You can feel it?" She touched the heart again, fascinated. She had expected it to feel tongue-like and wet, but against her fingers, his heart felt more akin to flesh. Like the cool spread of skin across his back, or his face. She was engulfed in its nearness. Jack hunched shuddering over the chair, all his breath hissing out like a teapot.

"I said, stop!"

"Your heart still knows my name," she whispered.

"Then shut the lid and let me never hear it! And stop touching it! It feels…" he didn't finish the sentence, but whatever he meant to say, Elizabeth was certain he didn't feel pain.

"Why?" she questioned, sketching her name with one finger on the heart, feeling illicit delight when he arched back and clenched his teeth together. "Do you think I might break it by accident?"

"You've broken your fair share of hearts, I think," he gasped, on his knees now. "Now close the chest!"

"Why do you remember all the hearts I've broken but you can't remember my name?" She traced the letter "P" for pirate, and he exhaled sharply, his face damp.

"You're going to be the death of me, love." Again.

"By pain… or pleasure?"

He lurched toward the table, pulled the chest out of her hands, and slammed the lid down with finality. "There, you've seen it. Now give me the key!" he demanded, passing his hand over his face and taking a deep, steadying breath.

Elizabeth didn't have the key. It lay on the table between them, next to the rum. The rum! Remembering the goblet, Elizabeth seized it and drank it down. There wasn't much left, but it was enough. "Would it be better… easier to bear… if I touched _you_ instead?" She leaned across the table, wrapping her hand around Jack's neck and shoulder, sliding down to his chest. She found the unfamiliar scar and covered it with her handprint.

"Wife," he muttered. "You're a wife." He could see the veins of her hand, see the traces of gunpowder leftover on her thumb and forefinger from the battle.

"What does it matter?" Elizabeth replied softly, "It's ten years between tonight and our next meeting." Or perhaps a hundred. Perhaps they would never meet again.

"What exactly are you saying, love?" Jack breathed, as her hand found his jaw, his ear.

"I'm saying that you shouldn't spend your last night on land for a decade alone, Jack."

He pulled away from her, smirking his usual infuriating smirk. "Well in that case I should get down to the tavern and find myself a saucy wench before too much time passes."

"Jack, wait," Elizabeth commanded, every nerve in her body tingling, the thoughts in her head racing and tripping over one another. She couldn't help it. She wanted to taste him. _Had_ to taste him, or she would die of thirst in the desert of the next ten years. "My name is Elizabeth."

Straight away, the knowing came rushing back to him. That moment of knowing was his again. He knew the word. He knew what it meant—all it meant. It meant… it meant… _Elizabeth_. He tried to form the word with his mouth, but his tongue felt sluggish, his cheeks sucked hollow. The word filled the void in his mind, damned him with its beauty. "Elizabeth," he finally stammered, as his mind stitched itself back together—that moment of loss when his heart was taken, that moment that followed when the pain at last ceased. It was all back. Her name was an ocean on his lips… harsh, changing, untamable. "Why did you do that?"

"Last time we said goodbye I gave you a kiss. And this time…" she hesitated. "I want something more. I want… all of it, Jack. All of you."

"And then you'll leave me cursed to my task with never a care in the world, love? You'll take what you like from me and then flit off to your happily ever after, is that it?"

His fury did not frighten Elizabeth now—it merely proved to her that they were both desperate with the same yearning, reckless with the same unyielding fire. "Ten years from now, I'll be here. On the beach outside, waiting for you. I swear it, Jack. By my life, I swear it."

_Elizabeth_. Oh, how her name bowled him over with ravenous want! "How can I trust you, Elizabeth?" he murmured. After all, she had left him to die once. And she was pirate king—pirates were not known to be men (or women) of their word. He knew that well enough.

"I don't know," she whispered. She pushed aside the table and wrapped her arms around him, and he could smell the salt of the sea on her hair. He relaxed against her, and the world was coming apart. All their scheming and pretending thawed into the smoky room, leaving only beating hearts and parched mouths, frantic for water. It had been such a long day. "How can I trust _you_, Jack? If you don't come, I'll be cursed too."

Jack shook his head. "Cursed by our own folly." Or perhaps, cursed by destiny. For hadn't this been the way of it, for time out of mind?—a man of the sea, a great sailor, destined to fall in love with a woman whose unpredictable heart put both their lives at risk? Would Elizabeth break her vow and torment him forever, or would she be there again when his foot broached the sand of the shoreline, casting sunlight into an eternity of shadow?

Like so many things, there was no answer. No way to know. No way to be certain. Jack pressed the key back into her hand, bent her fingers close around it. "Curses be damned," he said, and finally their mouths met, open to catch the torrential rain.


	3. A Thousand Candles

**Third and final installment. This chapter got a bit long but I wanted to keep this to three chapters. And to say I enjoyed writing this would be an understatement. Thank you immensely for reading, and for the lovely reviews! I appreciate hearing from you so much. Enjoy~! **

* * *

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Time stopped itself in the margins. All the clocks had finished either progressing or reversing, and took themselves in an entirely new direction. The sea they charted was dangerous and unexpected, chaotic and eager, sweltering.

As their mouths met, Elizabeth could almost imagine they were back on the Pearl, doom hovering nearby, unencumbered yet by guilt or malice, not quite sure of anything. And she could almost imagine that they were years ahead of themselves, on the shores of the dead, reuniting in passion that brought clarity to all their old dealings. Once, their differences had been erotic to her—the contrast of their skin, the variance of their experience, the separation of their ideals. He had been the pirate, and she, the stalwart innocent.

But lately, she had become him. He was becoming her. They were melding into each other like hissing metal, and it was irrelevant who was who. Would she sail away on the Dutchman tomorrow, to a long darkness? Would he lock up all his wildness and submit to the vows of marriage? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Jack mattered, only. And she could see now that he loved her. His love was strange, a pirate's love—in his strength and his surety he had always seemed removed from the pithy emotions of land dwellers, but now… now… he didn't have to say it. A kiss was enough to tell her everything she had ever wanted to know.

There was no kraken in the water this time, no long boat to escape in. The candles were blooming like stars overhead, and the walls of the room were only a black night, endless and fluid. She was growing up under his shadow, becoming a woman within his heat, leaving all else behind until she was bare and deliciously lucid. They kissed slowly, they kissed madly, they kissed brutally, they kissed soothingly. They kissed to forget, they kissed to remember. To escape and to confront. To admit and to deceive. To begin and to end.

Slowly, slowly, their kisses became caresses. She found the years etched into his skin profoundly beautiful, signifying a life ardently lived, risks daringly taken. His age had melted away with immortality, and she was the old one now, she was the one whom sun and storm would weather. She would grow forward while he grew backward into eternity. Jack's clever fingers undid the clasps of the black silk tunic she wore, and his eyes met hers, as if to ask, shall I go on? Shall I undo the last clasp and… ? _Are you certain this is what you really want?_

Time stopped itself in the margins. He loved her. Love had never been in short supply for Elizabeth, so perhaps she had not learned to value it quite as she ought. But his love was different. His was the love of a man who had sailed the world and learned the price of each kind of treasure, so that he could admire her, could believe in her as no one else could. He asked nothing of her, needed nothing from her, except tonight.

Questions and curses be damned, Elizabeth thought, tugging the last clasp open herself, reaching to untie his bandana, helping him shrug off his worn shirt. Elizabeth was astonished at how easy it was to touch him, to kiss him, to shudder when his eyelashes fluttered against her cheek, to gasp when his mouth opened hotly against her neck. She had spent months convincing herself that they were never meant to finish that kiss they had begun against the mast. Now, it came so effortlessly, with so much certainty, as if they had both long known this moment would turn up— as if they had dreamed it every night for a thousand nights.

She hadn't imagined that his rough pirate hands could be so soft, so gentle—hadn't imagined the delicate way the back of his fingers would outline her features like an artist's brush, as though afraid to shatter her. She couldn't have guessed that his bravado and swagger would relax into such expressive precision as one hand reached the small of her back and pressed their bodies together with aching restraint. She moaned and he gasped. She lost her fingers in his hair and now both of his hands traveled the paths of her skin beneath the silk undergarment; they inched closer, and closer, until Elizabeth was certain she would vanish into him completely.

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* * *

.

Time was rushing onwards across the sky. Jack was losing himself in her—he could feel it, bit by bit. Her skin tasted of salt and smoke, tasted of tears unshed and promises unfulfilled, all the life they would never share. Her hair drenched him in foam off the sea. The soft catch of her breath, the incoherent words she moaned against his body—these were the things that meant _Elizabeth_. He hadn't imagined that she would be so supple, so yielding—she who had always been stubborn and rigid, she who had kept her head about her long enough to burn the rum, to lock the shackles, to win the kingship. He couldn't have guessed that she would give herself into his hands so trustingly, without a trace of resistance. Hadn't they been enemies once? Hadn't they lied to each other, betrayed each other, used each other? Hadn't she despised him? Hadn't he loathed, even feared her? Yet now they were half-clothed and gasping with desire, now they were allies in an incandescent, ever-shifting embrace.

He could see so much of himself in her, and so much of her in himself… old ideals he had clung to mirrored the life she would lead. He remembered how, in the midst of his resentment, still sailing into oblivion beyond the lands of the dead, he had found a way to forgive her as she collapsed in grief at her father's death. Perhaps she had wept for him too, when he died the first time. Perhaps. He had known loss before, enough times to expect it and meet it with a straight face. But Elizabeth had not known loss enough to understand it yet. She had never been truly alone, never existed in a world where she could rely on only the strength of her own hands and the cleverness of her own mind. Over time, with loss, she would become him.

Now time was rushing onwards across the sky, and this was all they had. These kisses and this embrace. This deliberate undressing. This painstaking discovery of skin, of where she was sensitive, of which stroke or lick made her shiver, which rhythm would bring her to release. This awareness that they were pirates—they owed each other nothing, yet were giving each other everything.

Was she really here? Like that first kiss against the mast, he had been taken in too quickly, unable to decipher what she wanted, unable to guess her intentions before he succumbed. Surely he had watched her pledge her life to another not hours before. Surely they were irrevocably separated by fate. Or bound by fate, perhaps? This night was a flag stuck into the sands of time, in homage to impossible love. Jack smirked in the middle of a kiss. It might not be probable, but for this exact moment, it was clearly possible.

"Jack," Elizabeth breathed, feeling his smile.

"Aye, Elizabeth," he replied languidly, pulling her face close so he could see the wide truth of her dark eyes better. Yes, she was here. This was no dream, no stupor of drink.

"You won't forget me, will you Jack?"

He chuckled softly, "How could I?" Too many memories, too many images, every inch of his former life had been colored by her. After all, if it hadn't been for her damned tactical maneuvers, he might have avoided the Brethren Court (and the ensuing battle) altogether. He might be a thousand leagues from here, still pretending that the sea and its solitude were enough to sustain him. Jack chuckled again. Ironic, but the whole ordeal had been worth it for this.

"You won't forget my name?"

"Elizabeth, they already took my heart once. Not sure as they could manage to cut it out again." He meant it lightly, but she clung to him and drew a ragged breath. "No tears, love," he whispered, smoothing her hair back from her face. "You've cried enough for one lifetime. Just promise me you'll always be smiling after this, and I'll promise to remember your name."

She wound up his body, learning him again, leaving him without any more words. "Perhaps it's unwise to make promises we can't keep," she muttered, returning to his mouth for another lingering kiss. Unwise to write codes that should be mere guidelines. Unwise to spell the corners of what should be unpredictable and free as a dream.

And who knew what remembrance would be allowed them on the respective shores of eternity and matrimony? Neither had walked those coasts before—neither knew what bargains would have to be made, deep within their souls, for survival. Jack brushed his nose and mouth against Elizabeth's hair, wishing her wildness and adventure. Let her never grow old in a house, let her never be chained to such a life as that. Let the sea haunt her—let her days be disorderly and precarious, let her drink deep of rum, let her skin be inked with images, scars, stories. Let there come along others to her life that would speak her true name—_pirate_.

Like a prayer he breathed her name again, feeling its depth and weight, feeling its splendor and exactness. Elizabeth. Their movements had quickened, their kisses were frantic. The moments were cramming together, the ache of desire spurring them onwards, closer, faster, fiercer. Their bodies were one now, and their souls flitted fervently in time to the cadence of Jack's heart, against the wood of the chest that gleamed in the light of a thousand candles.

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* * *

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Jack watched the sunrise.

Elizabeth slept against him, curled into a warm place on the floor, surrounded by sputtering candles, mostly dark now. Their nearness was unfamiliar, like so many things in his life, yet it was precious. There was only one window in the court of the brethren, filmed over with dust and grime and disuse, filmed over with smoke and bickering, absence. The nearness he felt for Elizabeth now would become that way soon, a once-bright window growing dark. Her hair was tangled around her face, her breath whistled slightly on the exhale. She hadn't bathed in weeks. Her lips were chapped. Her nails were bitten down in annoyance or nervousness, Jack didn't know which. There was no smudged rouge on her pale cheeks, no skirted bodice nearby on the floor, only the ragged black silk of her tunic, still damp and reeking of the stale ocean. How could she sleep, with destiny pressing so close?

Jack was afraid to move in case it disturbed her. It had been mere hours (perhaps less?) since they collapsed onto the floor, worn through and through with reckless love-making, provoking each other until they yelled hoarsely into the fleet empty cavern around them. She was more innocent than she had ever let on—it hadn't taken much skill or care to have her gasping in abandon, writhing in the throes of a long-sought release. But then, he might have been the innocent, for the way her every touch sent him verging off into unknown islands, lost to reality, engulfed in moments so sharp with ecstasy they seemed impossible. Jack couldn't help but reflect (with admitted sour grapes) that the man she would call husband could never fully appreciate the depth of her passionate nature, nor would he be able to tap the wells of vicious, willful fervor contained in her slender person. They were well matched in that regard, Jack and Elizabeth—once they crossed the barrier and left remorse behind, they could drown in the willowy crack of a hot moment, they could find eternity in the speck of a too-ardent kiss.

Last night (Jack couldn't help but feel that the meaning of the word _night_ had changed forever) had left them on floor, still pressed tightly together, their sweat mixing and soaking into each others' pores, their scents seeping into each others' memories. Their clever banter, their infuriating conversations, incisive as duels, would not have weathered this new way of knowing each other, but no matter. They would part. They would leave this bizarre night here in the cavern, melted into the wax on the floor and unreal as the sunrise pouring through the window. Dawn. Hours left for the earth to be solidly beneath him. Hours left for Elizabeth to rest pleasantly against him.

"Jack, are you ever going to sleep?" she murmured without moving. Had she been awake this whole time, as he relived their unions and impulsively mapped her skin with his deft fingers?

"Not tonight, love," he growled softly. He could feel her smile.

"It's not as though it were _your_ wedding night, Jack," she said. She shifted closer to him, pulled his arm around her and held his hand to her face, holding reality at bay.

"Not yours either," he retorted, keeping his hand there against her mouth. What a sweet mouth she had—her lips so often pressed into a sardonic line, or trailing a bit of poetic drabble to ignite a kingdom of pirates to a battle they would never fight again. What a dangerous mouth she had.

She stuck her tongue out to lick his palm, and he chuckled. She said, "It was my wedding night, Jack. Maybe I'm wicked, but I'm not sorry."

She seemed small, childlike in the paleness. "Don't ever be sorry, love, not for anything. You've got no cause to be sorry."

"Neither have you, Jack."

He loved the way she said his name, like something firm to grasp on to, like a word worth lingering over. Sometimes she said it like a curse, and that was wonderful too. "As long as you're awake, I'd be happy if you kept Barbossa from stealing the Pearl again. Think you and William could manage it?"

He felt Elizabeth swallow hard, felt her throat tighten. "I can't imagine the ship without you."

"I can't imagine myself without that ship," Jack admitted. "Can't win them all, I suppose."

"You've won more than your fair share," Elizabeth said quietly. "You'll always be Captain of the Pearl, Jack. But I'll take her, and keep her safe for you, if you like." Her words were empty. He wasn't journeying off to return later. The Pearl was another lost chess piece in the game.

_She's only a ship, mate_, Jack told himself. Only a ship. And Lizzie was only a woman. And life was only a splinter, and destiny only a laugh. And he was only a man, stripped down, defenseless, about to be exiled from ship, life, love. "Why did you come find me last night, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth was still a moment. "I needed to say goodbye."

"Ah."

"I needed to taste you."

"Help yourself."

"I needed to kiss you."

"Again?"

"I needed to figure out why you said my name."

"And have you come to any brilliant conclusions?"

"Just one."

"Hmmm," Jack grunted. "And which conclusion is that? I do hope it is the obvious and somewhat disturbing conclusion that your own wheedling ways led a poor innocent pirate to his doom."

She toyed with his fingers. "The less obvious but entirely astounding conclusion that even a pirate can learn to love another person."

"Love," Jack chuckled. "A land-dweller's illusion."

"Or a sailor's hidden desire?" She had turned to face him now, quite serious. "Are you in love with me, Jack?"

The chest was close at hand, and faintly, the beat echoed around the dim room. It was hard to deny what his heart intrepidly spoke. Yet like the bearings to the Isle de Muerta, the truth was risky, maybe perilous. He stood up, cold without her heat on his skin, and pulled on his breeches and his shirt. As he did, a vial filled with black liquid tumbled out of his pocket and landed next to Elizabeth.

"What is this?" she asked, standing with a strange look.

Jack pulled the little bottle out of her fingers. "A parting gift from Calypso. She didn't want the Dutchman to wind up with another cursed captain, it seems."

Elizabeth produced her own empty vial from her crumpled tunic. "She gave me one… a sleeping potion for Will."

"Ah," Jack said with a closeted glance. "This one is a bit different, love. A drink of forgetfulness."

"Forgetfulness?"

"Aye. To wipe clean the mind from love, so as one can sail off into the sunset without a broken heart."

Elizabeth gathered her hair away from her face, still naked in the faint glow, and Jack didn't have the heart to look her in the eyes. "Are you going to drink it, Jack?

Jack suddenly felt his age again, for the briefest moment. Her voice pierced him—he hadn't expected that she would care so much, hadn't expected that last night would leave them so frayed, so intimate. There was no rum now, and there were no candles burning a haze across reality. Just cold dawn. "Fancy a walk, love?"

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* * *

.

The sun had drifted upwards, careless and cruel, and the beach was empty save them. The harshness of the light shadowed Jack's face and Elizabeth thought back to the first moment she had met his eyes, black as sin, on the docks of Port Royal. Such a long time had passed, such a lot of life had grown in the margins of months, aye years, since. What had possessed Jack to risk everything for her, so many times? Why was he so insufferably good?

The wandered into the surf, dove into the waves. Drenched themselves in the water that fell like gold over them, so real, so fresh. Found themselves hand in hand, then arm in arm, chest to quivering chest, mouth to ravenous mouth. They mingled their eyelashes and their tongues. They stripped off their clothes and were bare beneath the water, urgent again, heedless. Afterwards they lay in the sand together, daring the sun to burn them, daring the water to drift them out to the shimmering horizon. Elizabeth watched Jack's movements, so graceful, exaggerated like a dancer's. She watched his face that concealed so much, she watched his hand absently return to the unfamiliar scar across his body, tracing it up and down as if to verify the truth of it. The sun crossed its zenith and went downwards, against her will. She spent a thousand kisses on him, and he drowned her in teasing caresses. Too soon, oh heaven too soon, the Dutchman was painting itself solid against the horizon. Too soon, oh god how soon! the light dimmed and burned down like old embers.

They hadn't spoken, but now Jack retrieved his vial, and opening her empty one, he poured half of the choking black liquid into it.

"There, love," he said. "Now we can both drink, and forget."

"But Jack," Elizabeth said, barely able to speak, "Last night I promised I would return in ten years. You promised you would remember me… come back for me!"

Jack tied his bandana around his wild braids, pulled his boots on, and looked at her with such honesty that Elizabeth almost couldn't bear it. "Last night you said what I wanted to hear. But you've got a different life awaiting you, love. I won't have you pining and sighing when there's adventure to be had. Eh?"

"But Jack… how could I drink?" She stood next to him, apart from him, on the beach, and the sun was setting much too fast. Where had the day gone? Where had all the days gone—those days they had been together, teasing, bickering, battling for their lives? "How could I choose to forget you?"

He smiled whimsically, and she missed him already, so much she could barely breathe. "It's destiny, love. I'm off to the horizon. You're off to the life you always wanted. When the sun sets, we both drink. And good luck to you."

He waded into the water again, alone this time. The Dutchman was blotting out the sun. Elizabeth shaded her eyes, one hand clutching the half-full vial Jack had given her. A drink of forgetfulness, to let her rejoin Will, to let her begin life again with her husband, but without this love. "Jack, wait!" she rushed into the water, held his face close, kissed him with all her strength.

"To answer your question," Jack said with a hint of a smile, "I'm in love with you." _For a few minutes more, anyway. _"So do me a favor and bury that chest with my heart in it here on the beach."

Elizabeth nodded, unable to look away from his eyes. "I want to say I'll never forget you, but I don't suppose that's accurate."

"It would never have worked out between us, darling."

She smiled then, a smile of exquisite heartbreak. "Goodbye, Jack." _I love you, too._

"Goodbye, Elizabeth."

.

* * *

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**Ten Years Later**

Ten years were spent, sometimes cautiously, sometimes extravagantly, sometimes rushing fast like a tide and other times milling like a choked pond. But the time was stuffed with sunrises and stories, wisdom growing into his skin, a different kind of curse (perhaps they called it a blessing?) fielding with immortality to make him the Captain the Flying Dutchman was always meant to have. He knew the length of the oceans, and he knew the width of human hearts, and he knew the depth of life's final moments. He knew many things now. He was Captain.

The shores of the dead were familiar, but only just. For souls died far and wide across the sea, and the Dutchman was not condemned to lingering shadow for too long. When he reached those black shores, Jack could see the candles of their souls springing up around him, and every time he squinted his eyes and pretended they were candles blooming like stars in a cavernous room at Shipwreck Cove, where he had left love with a fond farewell. The half-filled vial sat untouched in his breast pocket, close but untasted. He didn't want to forget, not yet. Ten years of remembering hadn't cursed him or tortured him—the memories became his solace, his rum, his laughter. The memories had been enough.

Jack could see the shore breaking the horizon ahead. The Dutchman sailed steadily toward it, and Jack could see the shore breaking apart the last ten years, wiping him clean, rebirthing him. It was sunset, and he was coming back to an empty beach. Shipwreck Cove had been deserted for some years, he knew. Yet it held some fascination over him, some enchantment for its old memories. Perhaps he would find the room of the Brethren Court, now dark with disuse, the candles put out, and perhaps there against a rickety table he would drink the vial and forget at last. For a man should not be greedy with memories, and with time, all things must end. Jack knew so many things now.

He declined the longboat and swam to the shore. The water covered him, cleansed him, and overhead the stars began their lazy appearance. It was a night like so many others for this beach and this island, but to Jack, the night was singular, unique. There were birds chirping, insects humming, trees whispering. The sand of the beach was still hot from the day's sun, and it warmed his bare feet. The air was humid and there was a tinge of corruption on it, a tinge of humanity that Jack had long missed. He was alone, yet it was here and not the rowdy streets of Tortuga he had chosen to land. He had spent a childhood here once. He had become a man here. He had made love to a king here. Jack smiled. He smiled often these days, he smiled in contentment. A ship and the sea and his memories were enough.

The silent streets of the town were grown over in moss and lichen, as the island slowly covered the past. The pirates had moved on, split, diminished, as they all knew they must. Here and there they gathered, but never altogether, never to hoist the colors or confront their enemies. Those days were gone, but the memory of them had become legend. Jack paused to sniff, and smoke and sweat still lingered in the air, still lingered in the rotting wood and forgotten palms. Ahead was the Brethren Court. Jack reached into his shirt for the vial of black liquid. It was time to let her go.

There was smoke on the air. Bemused, unafraid, Jack followed the old hallway as it wound around, at last ending at the door. Jack pushed it open. The cavern of the Brethren Court opened up to him in a blaze of light. A thousand candles lit the ceiling, scattering wax across the dusty floor. A gleaming chest sat on the table. And there in the midst of it all stood Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

Jack never dreamed anymore, so she must be real. She must be. Time stopped itself in the margins, and he took time to study her face, to relearn her sincere eyes. She was the same. She was exactly the same. No—not quite. Age did not show on her face, not at all. Yet there were differences. She was darker after long days in the sun. Her hair was lighter, longer, knotted back beneath a sort of bandana. Her eyes were rimmed with a trace of kohl, just enough to reflect the sun on bright days at sea. There were marks on her skin—an inked vine swirled down one hand, and thick guttering cutlass scars of old battles across one shoulder. Stories lurked in her eyes. All he had wished for her had come to pass.

"Jack," she cried, and time resumed. She sprang toward him, threw her arms around him, covered him with kisses. "Jack Sparrow! I can't believe… I didn't think…"

"Didn't think I'd remember you?" he teased, returning her kisses.

"I didn't think you'd come!" she breathed. She held out her vial, her half of the black liquid that they both should have drunk to forget, and to part. Like Jack's, it was untasted.

Jack held her at arm's length for a moment, his smile glinting gold, all his yearning fulfilled. "You didn't drink, Elizabeth." _You didn't keep to the code._

She smiled deeply, found her way back to his mouth. "Neither did you, Captain." _They're more like guidelines, anyway._

Jack gathered the two vials and with a swift movement, shattered them onto the floor. So much for letting go, he thought. The liquid burned into the wood and then vanished beneath a layer of dust. Jack swept Elizabeth closer, tasting her skin as he hadn't tasted anything for years. "I've missed you, love."

"And I've missed you," she burrowed against his neck, eager. "The world isn't the same without you, Jack."

"The horizon isn't quite the same without you, Elizabeth." He kissed her eyelids, loosed her hair from its bonds and tangled his fingers into it. He was alive again. For a night and day, he was human.

.

**The End.**


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